


Christmas 2020/Silent Night

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 2020, Bittersweet, Christmas, Comfort, Established Relationship, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Other, Pandemics, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Crowley and Aziraphale talk over the good and bad of 2020.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	Christmas 2020/Silent Night

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light_ ...

Aziraphale sipped his sherry and listened to the song, the soft melody a little scratchy from the record. He was sat in the window seat that looked out onto their front garden, and the little lane that ran by their house. There was no one out – it was grey and rainy, of course, as was expected for December in England. But this year it was empty for a different reason. No one was out because no one was allowed out. It wasn't safe; staying home, staying in one's 'pod' was safe this year, and Aziraphale meditated on the empty road, and the lights slowly coming on up and down the street. He did like the twinkly white lights; most years he and Crowley would go for a walk of an evening and admire the creativity of their neighbours. They had done so earlier in the week, and waved to their neighbours and chatted with one or two, everyone staying well apart in the little pools of light.

Of course neither of them could fall ill. But others could. Others had, in their own village even! And it was best to set an example, so they took walks together, wearing masks and only waving to friends instead of hugging them, and Aziraphale listened to old songs and sipped his sherry and watched the shadows of Christmas Eve appear as night fell.

He remembered when the song had been written. The longing in the whole country for war to end, for their boys to come home. (And their girls. Mustn't forget anyone in that hell in the trenches.)

_Through the years, we all will be together, if the Fates allow..._

Not this year, but another year. Another year, the streets would be busy and the grandkids would run off cookie and cocoa in the garden and get more cookies and cocoa from those nice gentlemen next door. And there would be a Christmas Market full of things absolutely no one had any interest in, but one had to pretend to admire it all, and anyway the mulled wine was delightful. As was both of them dodging the village vicar. Another year, possibly even  _next_ year.

Aziraphale sipped his sherry again. It was all so hard and so sad. Pandemics always were; something heavy and sorrowful came on the world, in times like these.

He just about didn't spill his sherry when the song abruptly changed to something loud and with quite a beat to it, and Crowley swept into the room, still wearing his Kiss The Cook apron.

“Stop yer maundering, angel, the puds are done!” he roared, and Aziraphale turned from the window, refusing utterly to smile.

“My dear, have you just sent me to Whackageddon?” he asked severely.

“You mean Whamageddon and wait how do _you_ know about that?” Crowley demanded.

“I talk to the young people,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Sometimes.”

Crowley gave him a very dubious look.

“Well, I've got to distract that nice young Sam so I can miracle a few quid into their back pocket, all right?” Aziraphale said. “Their mum's still out of work, and with the little one...”

“Softy,” Crowley accused.

“It's merely my contribution to a little mutual aid,” Aziraphale said loftily. “Also, this music is unbearable, dear boy.”

“You're _exactly_ what Kropotkin had in mind,” Crowley muttered, and snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale relaxed. There wasn't much music they could agree on, but Britten's Ceremony of Carols came close. 

“Oh, lovely,” he said, and rose from the window seat. “Dinner?”

Crowley bowed and extended his arm, urging Aziraphale out of the living room. There was a lovely spread in their dining room, the wine already poured. The meat had rested and the Yorkshire puddings were made, and Crowley had used their good china. All in all, it was a delightful supper for two, tall white tapers cutting through the velvety winter dark.

Aziraphale sat and did the honours to serve them, breathing in the mouthwatering smells. They obviously didn't pray before meals or say grace or anything like that – wouldn't do to draw attention, and what on earth would either of them  _say_ ? – but there was often a toast to start the meal. It usually came easily, but not this year.

“I don't know to what to say,” Aziraphale finally said. “It's all so awful, Crowley. It's too cruel.”

“The humans've been through bad times before,” Crowley said gently. “This isn't the worst.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, but it's the worst for a long time. What is there to drink to?” He cleared his throat. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he added, reaching for his handkerchief and dabbing his eyes. “I know there's good out there too. They're quite accomplished at that. Finding light in darkness and all.”

“'s'rather the theme of the season,” Crowley said. “It's not all darkness, angel. There's a vaccine.”

Aziraphale nodded, lips pressed together. Not quite a smile, but not crying, at least. “There are fewer statues honouring racists, I suppose.”

“There's people buying groceries for neighbours,” Crowley said.

“And mutual aid societies. Community pantries,” Aziraphale agreed.

“You know every time we go out, everyone's in masks now,” Crowley said. “People want to take care of each other.”

“And there are ways to keep in touch,” Aziraphale added. “Not that I understand any of them, but I have been told.”

Crowley smiled. “People are still having babies. It's not all lost, while there's babies.”

“Oh, my dear. There is so much new life,” Aziraphale said softly. “And new ways of living. There is so much to be born out of the sorrow.” He straightened his back and lifted his glass. “My dearest Crowley. To the world.”

“To the world,” Crowley said, and touched his glass to Aziraphale's, and they drank deep. And, ritual complete, the love of the world felt and acknowledged and added to, they ate.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


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